


Of Malls and Mistletoe

by Cheetoh



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Mall fic, Mistletoe Made Us Make Out, Season 5 Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28160913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheetoh/pseuds/Cheetoh
Summary: Ethan Rayne's up to his old tricks, having hung mistletoe with the opposite of care all over the Sunnydale Mall. When it becomes clear that the only way to stop chaos from reigning over the year's biggest shopping season is for enemies to snuggle up beneath it . . . well, it's just a good thing Buffy finds Spike there after hours.Set a week after Riley's departure in "Into the Woods."
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	Of Malls and Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the Elysian Fields 2020 Secret Santa Event as a present for Dusty.

This was all Riley’s fault. 

If Riley hadn’t left her feeling all sad and mopey, she would have done her Christmas shopping earlier, like a good little slayer elf, rather than spending a week rolling around in bed and listening to “End of the Road” and “You Oughta Know” on alternating repeat until her recovering mother appeared at the door, thrust her car keys into Buffy’s hand and pushed her out the door murmuring about how Buffy needed a break and weren’t there good sales three days before Christmas? 

If Riley hadn’t left, she wouldn’t have been here at the Sunnydale mall half-heartedly sniffing body wash and wondering which monk decided her sister’s favorite scent was cotton candy. And if Riley hadn’t left, she _definitely_ wouldn’t have spotted the familiar face loitering by the pretzel kiosk. 

Ethan. Ethan Rayne. 

“Be a love, and put some more salt on that Bavarian,” he was telling the weary cashier. 

Maybe it was the fact that she’d just had another boyfriend skip town, or maybe it was the fact this was the third time she’d heard “Wonderful Christmastime” while _simply not having one_ , but Buffy was in no mood for the warlock’s particular brand of chaos. 

“Hiya!” she said, sneaking up behind him. “Whatcha doin’?” 

“Ordering a pretzel,” he said with an impatient look, only to do a double-take. “Oh bugger. It’s you.” 

“Yeah. Me. Wanna tell me why you’re not in some high-security government cell?” The last time she’d seen Ethan, Riley was muscling him into an army van for Fyarl-ing Giles. 

“Been out awhile, actually,” Ethan said, slipping the bagged pretzels into his coat. “Turns out, tales of my magical powers were only hearsay, and the US government is not an organization that prides itself on thinking outside of the box.” 

Somehow, this felt like Riley’s fault too. 

“Well, Slayer, it’s been fun, but I do have to be going,” Ethan said, beginning to futz about with his long checkered scarf. It was distracting--but not distracting enough to hide the fact that he was nudging a shopping bag behind a potted plant. 

She sighed. “What’s in the bag, Ethan?” 

He made a show of looking offended. “Presents! ‘Tis the season, after all.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Pushing him aside, Buffy pawed through it. Mistletoe. Just two lonely sprigs, each tied with blue ribbon at the top. But from the stray leaves and white berries, there clearly used to be more. 

When she looked up, Ethan was already sprinting for an exit. 

*

  
  


“I’m telling you, Giles, he’s up to something again.” 

They were in the hallway that led to a pair of smelly bathrooms. Ethan had been surprisingly hard to catch, having no qualms about throwing besweatered shoppers in her path. She’d finally tackled him next to the central atrium, where several bleary-eyed parents in the Santa line had clapped, grateful for the unexpected entertainment. 

Now Ethan was sitting on a bench by the gum-covered payphones, whistling happily and winking at passersby despite the handcuffs they’d clapped on him as soon as Giles arrived. All in all, he looked far too much like the cat who ate the canary. Or the British guy who ate the ... crumpet. 

“That does appear to be the case,” Giles said. “But until we can get him to talk, I’m afraid I’ve no idea--excuse me, but what is on your trouser bottoms? Enraged ... penguins?” 

Buffy peered down. Yes, okay, her pants had begun the circle of life as pajamas, but what was the point of dressing up anymore? The latest Buffy boyfriend not only left town, he left the state, the country, and the continent. And unlike Angel, Riley hadn’t left a number she could obsess over not calling. 

“Badtz-Maru,” she snapped. “Proud member of the Hello Kitty family. Look it up.” 

“Ah. I see.” He took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “I take it Riley is ...” 

“Gone. Like, ‘flew away in a big, black helicopter’ gone.” 

“I’m sorry, Buffy.” 

“It’s fine,” she said, because it was, and also because Ethan was watching the conversation with interest. 

“And your mother?” 

Some of the tension left her shoulders. “Feeling good enough to kick me out of the house for being too depressing,” she said, which was one thing to be thankful for, at least. Her mother wasn’t moving quickly these days, but she _was_ up and out of bed and tumor-free. “Anyway, Dawn can be on nurse duty for a while, but I don’t love leaving her alone because … you know.” 

Giles recovered quickly. “Right. Well, I figure we can enlist Willow to do a truth spell that will tell us why he’s hung the missing mistletoe. In the meantime, perhaps you should stay here until we know what’s afoot.” 

“The mall’s about to close. Not that staying after hours isn’t a childhood fantasy, but ...” 

“I suspect mall security guards are not the most fearsome adversaries. Especially if Willow can use the”--his face soured--“computer to loop the cameras and power down alarms.” 

“Fine.” 

“Call my apartment in an hour,” he said, then grabbed Ethan’s coat. “Come on, off we go to find what bollocks you’re up to now.”

“Careful, Ripper, you’ll leave a bruise,” Ethan’s voice echoed, and then they were gone. 

With a sigh, Buffy rustled up some change and called her mother with the news that her respite from angry breakup music would last a little longer.

*

Usually, Buffy would have appreciated a night where patrol involved retail rather than gravestones, but now everything reminded her of Riley. The camo gear in the window of the outdoorsy store. The display of toy cars at the front of Kaybee. The bright neon straws at Orange Julius, because, oh yeah, he’d cheated on her by paying some vampire skank to suck out his blood. 

_They needed me._

“And I didn’t?” she said, stabbing her straw through the lid of her smoothie. 

_I wanted to know why Dracula and Angel have so much power over you._

“Newsflash, Riley, they don’t,” she said, taking a loud slurp that made the teenage couple sharing a carton of McDonald’s fries move to another table.

_I just don’t feel it._

That was the thing that _really_ rankled. That he’d had the nerve to tell her he didn’t _feel it_ when she’d put so much effort into being his girlfriend. From pulling her punches so he never felt less than, to asking his not-so-needed opinion about how to tackle baddies, to showing up to every date looking freaking amazing. _Oh, this? Yeah, I can fight the forces of evil and have time for full hair and makeup._ If Riley Girlfriending were a sport, she should have gotten a gold metal. 

“Or at least a participation trophy,” she muttered, getting up to throw away the half-full cup when they announced the mall would close in ten minutes, then heading to the bathroom to kick off what would be the first of many lonely Friday nights by crouching on top of a toilet. 

Thirty minutes and several lackluster janitor sweeps later, she emerged to find the mall still bright but deserted-- _except_ for the overly peppy voice of Paul McCartney, who was still having a wonderful Christmastime. 

“Glad that makes one of us, Paul,” Buffy said as she made her way back to the payphones. Without the company of other shoppers, Buffy found herself paying more attention to the decorations: the large plastic trees with their cheery lights, the garlands of fir and holly and metallic red ribbon, the manic-looking Nutcrackers. Riley had talked a lot about how much he loved Christmas in Iowa, had even floated the idea of her coming back with him for a brief trip this year to meet his parents, something that had thrilled and terrified Buffy with its lip-smacking normalcy. But she hadn’t gotten to meet Mom and Pop Finn. She and Riley hadn’t even made it to their first Christmas. Buffy Summers apparently didn’t get Christmas boyfriends, or at least ones that didn’t involve talking them out of killing themselves. 

When she called Giles for an update, her first words were more of a bark. “Whaddya got?” She could hear Willow chanting in the background. Given no tubby mall guards had emerged, she must have managed to hack into the cameras. 

Giles sighed. “Well ...” 

“Uh-oh, you have bad-news voice.” 

“I suppose I do. According to Ethan, he’s hung cursed mistletoe at various spots in the mall, and tomorrow, at the height of the holiday shopping season, it’s going to cause, well, an orgy.” 

“An orgy of what?” 

“An orgy of ... well, an orgy in the most traditional sense. For the adults involved, at least.” 

“Oh. Um, why?” 

“’Cause it’s fun!” Ethan yelled, clearly close enough to overhear. 

“Shut up, you,” Giles snapped, then put the receiver back to his ear. “As far as I can tell, he thinks the resulting sexual energy will attract a higher being by the name of Amala the Destroyer, who will grant him extra magical abilities but also level half of Sunnydale.” 

Giles needed to stop saying words like “orgy” and “sexual” ... and “hung,” for that matter. Not to mention that Buffy was getting weird images of GAP bags used in ways GAP bags should not be used. Nor did she think any child should see their mother doing _that_ to Santa Claus.

“Okay, so how do I stop the sexy mistletoe from ... sexifying people?” 

“That’s the beauty of it!” Ethan crowed. “You can’t! I’ve truly done it this time. An unbreakable loophole.” After a long, dramatic pause, he devolved into maniacal giggles. “ _Kissing_!”

“That truth spell is pretty powerful stuff, huh?” Buffy asked. 

“It’s ... done a number, yes.” Giles’s voice shifted. “And how do you think _kissing_ is an unbreakable loophole, you sod?” 

“Between _enemies_ ,” Ethan said with relish. 

“So what am I supposed to do?” Buffy said after a few beats. “I can’t just grab a demon off the street and start macking on him.” 

“No.” Giles sighed. “Perhaps we can delay the mall’s opening tomorrow. Call in a bomb threat or a gas leak or--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Ethan said. “Eventually the mall will have to open.” 

Buffy closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe this was her life. She couldn’t believe this was happening at freaking Christmas. She couldn’t believe the mall was still playing that song. Didn’t they ever turn that thing off? 

“Look,” she said as McCartney warbled. “Let me figure out how to get out of here and then we’ll brainst--” 

Before she could finish that thought, there was a loud crash from the Victoria’s Secret across the way. 

*

This was all Harmony’s fault. 

If the dozy bint hadn’t said fuck all to his warnings not to go into his crypt’s lower level, she never would have discovered his Buffy shr--er, collection. And if she hadn’t discovered his collection, she wouldn’t have found the mannequin he’d snagged from the dumpster and said her wig smelled like “weird old cheese.” 

He’d snapped that she was mental, but the problem was that once she said it, well, yeah, the wig did kind of smell like old cheese. And given old cheese was not what the Slayer’s hair smelled like in real life--which was strawberries, and sunshine, and the faintest hint of new earth--it was throwing off his whole plan to use it to practice what he’d say to the Slayer whenever he ran into her next. 

So, after telling Harm to fuck off for good (no one insulted his lady, even the piss-poor approximation of her), he’d snuck through the tunnels and slipped in as the last employees were leaving the loading bay to find another mannequin whose provenance wasn’t a dumpster. But the only one in this shop that even remotely looked like the Slayer--with those full lips, and that haughty air, and, most importantly, that not-bald head--was on a high shelf that turned out to also be a shoddy shelf, and now Spike was covered in frilly underthings. 

“Bloody fucking hell!” he muttered, swiping at the lacy peach thong still clinging to his jacket. The security blokes here knew better than to confront pale, late-night intruders, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have tricks to keep Sunnydale’s vampire population from looting after hours. While they’d turn a blind eye to small transgressions, tearing down a whole bloody shop wall was sure to incite the sprinklers laced with holy water or, worse, a terrible song turned up at full volume. Time to make a swift exit before the McCartney situation intensified. 

“That’s our cue, love.” Spike swooped down to pick up the felled mannequin, then, as an afterthought, the peach thong, because it seemed like something Buffy would wear. Maybe under a pair of tight leather pants, the kind she wore when she came to yell at him for whatever petty evil she wanted to pin on him. Her skin would be flushed and dewy, her eyes like green daggers, and her voice--

“What the _hell_ are you doing here, Spike?” 

Her voice just like that. 

Spike turned to find the Slayer glaring at him from the open doorway. For a brief moment, Spike thought he’d actually gone fully round the bend, and this was a particularly vivid product of his imagination ... but then again, there were a few things even his fevered brain couldn't have created, like the fact her hair was in loopy little pigtails, and that she was wearing a grey sack and had penguins on her trousers. Surprisingly, the latter was not a mood-killer. One of the little buggers was right on her--

“I _said_ , what are you doing here?” 

“Uh ...” Spike straightened, mind scrambling as he tried to remember his early rehearsals for this exact moment. _There’s something I want to tell you_ was as far as he’d gotten before the smelling-of-cheese debate sprung up. He’d known he’d fucked up the second he’d seen her haunted expression outside of the suckhouse. He should have found a way to break it to her gently, but he’d jumped the gun, obsessed with stopping the breathy little sighs he heard from outside her window, the ones that haunted _him_ every time he went back to Harm, who squeaked like she’d seen one porno and taken the worst thing from it. 

But every time he tried to form an apology, he got caught up in other obsessions. Had she forgiven the wanker, or sent him packing? Did she know her boytoy had stabbed him through the fucking chest? Did she care? Or were they laughing at his hopeless love and shagging like minks? He’d come round a few times to loiter under the tree, and while he hadn’t spotted Soldier Boy wagging his square jaw around, she still smelled like him at present. 

Although ... he studied the baggy grey sweatshirt. Could be that. 

“I mean, seriously,” Buffy was saying, “was there some kind of Buy One, Get Evil ad in the paper? Can’t a girl get forced to go to the mall without it turning into a greatest hits parade of her enemi--” 

The Slayer’s feisty little teeth clicked shut on the last word, and her expression changed from exasperation to the one of slayerly duty. It was the face she’d worn when she came to stop Angel, way back when he didn’t realize why he was taking bloody inordinate interest in her expressions. 

“Stay here,” she snapped, stomping toward the bank of payphones across the way.

_Bitch thinks she can order me about, she’s got another thing coming._ He was, however, going to trail after her to see exactly what had riled her up--and also to see if there were any dirtily placed penguins on her backside. 

By the time he’d made it to the corner, she was on the phone. 

“Like ... how bad is this Amala chick, really?” she said. “I mean, are we talking property destruction or light carnage or ...” 

She stopped to listen, her frown deepening. 

“I ... think maybe I have a way of de-whatevering the mistletoe.” She noticed him lurking at the hallway’s entrance. “A very, very bad way.” 

“Wanna share with the class?” he said. “Got places to be.” Like back home, adding penguin pajamas to his stockpile of Buffy wanking details. 

“Shut up,” she hissed, then turned back to the phone. “No, it’s--look, has Ethan confessed where he hung the stuff?” She pulled a pen and old receipt from the bulky wallet she’d stashed in her hoodie’s pocket and started scribbling. “Uh-huh. Okay. So I’ll start with the shoe store. If you don’t hear from me, it’s working.” She paused. “No. I will _never_ explain further. What happens in the mall stays in the mall.” 

She hung up, still frowning at the list rather than telling him what the _fuck_ was going on. He was about to tell her he’d be on his merry way if the silent treatment continued, when she finally moved. 

“C’mon,” she said, grabbing his coat, but he shoved her off, wincing at the chip’s little twinge. 

“Not moving a bloody inch until you tell me why you haven’t popped me in the nose and thrown me out on my arse. Not to mention, I thought good little slayers avoided breaking and entering.” 

“I didn’t _break_ in. I was sniffing body wash and minding my own business when the universe decided to go, ‘Hey! Is this Christmas not _terrible_ enough? How about a little extra gift of terrible-ness? Mazel tov.’” 

“Well, if it’s celebrating Christmas, the universe wouldn’t really say--” 

“Not the point!” Buffy yelled. “The point is that I didn’t kick you out on your British butt thing because I need you to come to these stores”--she waved around the list --“and stand there while I kiss you. Then you’ll go home, I’ll wash my mouth out with soap, and we can forget this ever happened while also waking up in a town that’s not been destroyed by some warlock with a chaos fetish. Okay?” 

She started to storm away, like she hadn’t just dropped a bloody bomb on him, but he grabbed her arm. 

“Gonna need a few more details, pet.” 

  
  


*

In the weeks since realizing his terrible love for the Slayer, Spike had entertained many a wild fantasy about how he and the Slayer might end up snogging.

But none--exactly none--involved cursed mistletoe. 

“So let me get this straight,” he said, as they sat on a central bench. “You caught the warlock responsible for that Halloween mojo buying a pretzel and now Sunnydale’s in danger if we don’t snog under mistletoe. Because we’re--”

“Enemies,” Buffy finished, hands stuffed in her hoodie pocket. Like the rest of the rambling explanation, this was directed to a decorative palm tree gussied up in lights. While her distaste rankled, he was half-grateful she couldn’t look at him, because sheer glee was threatening to burst out of every pore. 

_Mazel tov for universe prezzies, indeed_... 

Still, couldn’t seem _too_ eager. Somehow suspected if he fell at her feet and announced his perverse, desperate love, she’d run screaming out the door and they’d all be fucked. And not in the good way. 

He made a show of leaning back and spreading his arms across the bench. “Seems a bit unscientific. What’s got you so sure this will work?” 

She eyed his hand like it was a viper. “Nothing, which is why all this talking is _wasting time.”_

He smirked. “That eager to get your lips on me again?” 

For a second, her face flushed deliciously. Then she leapt up. “ _No._ I want to be at home, setting up the tree with Dawn, and drinking hot chocolate, and kissing Ri--” 

She stopped at that and looked away, tiny chin set. 

“You and loverboy still on the outs?” he said, studying his fingernails, all casual-like. 

“It’s none of your business,” she finally bit out. 

He dropped his hands. “It damn well is. Don’t want him comin’ back round my crypt once he finds out I snogged his honey. Barely survived the last time.” 

Her face scrunched in confusion. “Huh?” 

“Him. Me. Fake stake to the chest. Blinding pain.” When she still seemed confused, he grabbed the neck of his shirt and pulled it down to show the pink scar tissue. The wound had closed quickly thanks to him springing for the expired human blood Willy kept in his cellar, but it was still obvious that there’d been a fucking _hole_ there a few days ago. 

Her brows dipped. So she hadn’t known. Well, good. 

“But ... why would he do that?” 

“Dunno,” he said. “Stab the messenger, tiny penis, your call.” 

He’d expected that to get a rise, but she was frowning at his chest and biting her lower lip, which made this the most erotic discussion of being impaled by a stake he’d ever had. At least until the lip started to wobble. 

“Look, Slayer, it’s fi--”

“No. We’re not on the outs.”

He felt a flash of rage; not that he hadn’t forgiven Dru her infidelities, but he at least held out longer than a bleeding week. “Are you honestly telling me you took that wan--”

“ _He’s_ on the outs.” When he looked at her uncomprehendingly, she added, “Out of the country! Out of communication! Out of my life! So no, you don’t have to worry about him showing up at your crypt.” She wiped an angry hand across her eyes. “So can we just see if it works? Otherwise, I have to go to Giles’s and find a plan B.” 

He studied her for a long moment, then stood up, flipping his coat behind him. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We can.” 

With one last sniffle, she pulled the list of stores out of her hoodie pocket. “Good. I think the shoe store’s closest, so--” 

“What do you think? Two hundred dollars?” 

Her mouth hung open. 

“Or should it be per snog? You said there were, what, ten of ’em?” 

“You want me to _pay_ you for this?” she said, and Spike was delighted to see the Slayer sparkle back in her eyes. No more moping about Cardboard now; by running off, wanker had proven unworthy to lick her boots. 

“Well ... yeah,” he said smoothly. “Seems only fair given the service I’m providing.” 

“The _service_?” 

“Think of me as Julia Roberts,” he said, then set off without looking back. “But if you want me in a hot-pink strappy number, it’s gonna cost extra.” 

  
  


*

As soon as Spike’s back turned, Buffy started looking around for things she could turn into a stake. The bench. One strong kick to the bench and she’d have dozens of little baby stakes, and then she could kill him. 

The _nerve_ of him, asking for money. Like kissing his stupid face was a privilege and not yet another deeply disturbing development in the string of deeply disturbing developments that was her life. She wanted to call out that the deal was off, that he could take his mannequin (which, hello, _weird_ ) and go screw himself. And yet ...

_Maybe he has a right to be a little surly, given your ex-boyfriend stabbed him_. She still wasn’t sure why Spike had gone out of his way to get involved--he’d seemed too surprised by her hurt for that to be the point of it--but Riley shouldn’t have done that, given this was one teensy-tiny microscopic area where he didn’t deserve staking, much less the kind meant to torture. 

Honestly, she was starting to wonder if she’d known Riley at all. Xander had chastised her for calling him “reliable,” but why was it wrong to want a reliable boyfriend? She should have let him in more, been more vulnerable, but how could she trust him not to fly off the handle whenever he felt neglected? Because there _were_ parts of a slayer’s life that were un-mixy with consistent girlfriend access. There just were. 

She’d _told_ Riley last year that their relationship was doomed, but he’d talked such a pretty game that she’d caved. But now he was gone, and she was back to feeling like a peg that didn’t fit any hole. Too normal for the supernatural boyfriend; not normal enough for the human one. Too clingy for Angel; not clingy enough for Riley. 

So where did that leave her? 

_Simply having a wonderful Christmastime_ , McCartney sang. 

Buffy growled, causing Spike to look up from where he was rattling the lock on the shoe store’s security gate. 

“I hate this song,” she said. 

“Believe me when I say it could be worse. And will be if I pop this,” he said, standing and pointing to one of the security cameras. “The night crew has a whole bucket of earworms at the ready if they see vamps are getting too handsy with the merchandise or creating messes that can’t be explained. Surprised the avalanche of unmentionables hasn’t called down the fury of Manilow already.” 

“You mean this is on purpose?” Buffy said. 

“Probably.” 

“Evil.” 

“More like anti-evil,” Spike said. “But the debate rages.” 

Buffy broke the lock then flung the gate up. “Willow looped the cameras, so he probably doesn’t know.” For a second, she felt bad; they were going to have to break a bunch of locks. But she would make Spike go back and pick up the underwear ... after the kissing. 

Her stomach did a weird dip. 

“Let’s get this over with,” she said, forging ahead into the darkened store. This was not her favorite shoe store in the mall--not even top-three--but what it lacked in quality it made up for in quantity, with ten aisles of half-shelves that stretched back to a wall of mirrors. And, bonus, the speakers seemed not to be working, so things were blessedly quiet. 

“You do know how to romance a bloke,” Spike said, ambling after her. 

“Maybe it won’t even work and we’ll all just die,” she said hopefully. Although then the last guy she kissed would be Spike, and that seemed terrible too. 

When Spike said nothing, she turned around--only to find him poking at buttons on the register. 

“Spike!” 

He didn’t even have the grace to look guilty. “What? You said it--cameras are off.” 

“What insane world are you living in where you think _stealing things_ in front of me is okay?” 

She expected him to argue more, but, oddly, he seemed almost contrite. “Right. Wasn’t thinking.” When he saw how much that puzzled her, his expression hardened. “ _Although_ if you weren’t such a stingy john, I wouldn’t have to lift anything from the till.” 

That left her spluttering. “Swear to God, stop with the hooker thing, or you’ll fit in a shoebox.” 

“I don’t feel safe anymore,” he said, putting on an affronted voice. As he brushed past her on his way to the entrance, he added, “Take your rank perversions somewhere else.” 

She caught him by the coat, intending to yell, or hit him, or ... who-knows-what him, but then she saw it. Finally. The thing she’d been looking for all along. 

“Oh my God, look at these,” she said, letting go of him to grab a pair of tan knee-high boots with a four-inch heel. God, the suede was so soft and slouchy, and they’d go perfectly with the skirt she planned to wear to New Year’s at the Bronze. She flipped them over. “And they’re on _sale._ Quick, look for a size 7.” 

She bent down and started pawing through the boxes. Size 6 ... Size 8.5 ... size 11?! But no. The world was terrible. 

“ _Dammit!_ ” she yelled, and when she looked up she saw that she’d done the impossible and startled the smirky-ness from Spike’s face. “Is there a back room?” 

“Probably.” 

“Look, and the heel is _wooden_ ,” she said, testing the sharp point of it with her finger. “It’s like I’d be walking around with two little stakes on my _feet_.” 

Spike’s eyes were weirdly glazed now. Probably because she was talking so much about shoes. Or, you know, tiny implements of vampire death.

“Never mind,” she said, searching the walls. “I’ll just find it my--oh.” There was the mistletoe, hanging in what was probably the door to the back room, its heavy blue curtain swept to the side. Sighing, Buffy put down the boot. “Duty calls.” 

“Doesn’t mean you can’t get the shoes too.” 

She shook her head. “No. And anyway, mom’s got a lot of hospital bills.” Nevertheless, she couldn’t resist giving its toe a little stroke. “Goodbye, sweet boot.” 

Spike had picked up a patterned ballet flat and was studying its bottom. “How is your mum doing?” he asked. 

“That’s not going to fit you,” Buffy said, then wished she hadn’t because it made him put it down and really look at her, which made her think of that night on the back porch where he’d found her crying. Even though she’d spent the previous hours wishing him dead for making her face the things she usually pushed way down deep in the Basement of Bad Buffy Thoughts, she had been glad for the quiet company, glad to not be alone with her own fear, if only for a second. In some ways, having an old fear sitting by her with a chip in his head made it easier. It was proof that worries either killed you or passed. Fear killed you or it passed. 

“She’s doing okay. Surgery went well,” Buffy said, more sharply than intended, because she absolutely couldn’t think _nice_ thoughts about Spike before kissing him. “Need to get back home, though, so we should do this.” 

She went to inspect the hanging plant. It _looked_ like normal mistletoe--not that she was any sort of expert. Maybe this whole enemy-kissage thing could be avoided by taking it down. Feeling silly for not thinking of it before, Buffy stood on her tiptoes and grabbed at it ... only to earn a bolt of fiery, searing pain shooting down her arm. 

“There goes that theory,” she said, putting a stinging finger in her mouth and reluctantly turning to call Spike over. Only he was already behind her, his eyes on the finger she was sucking. 

Feeling weird, she took it out. 

“How we doing this?” he drawled after a beat. 

She gestured to the door frame, putting extra firmness in her tone to make up for her stomach suddenly doing loop-de-loops. “Stand there.” 

Spike did as she asked, turning to lean against the jamb. The bright light from the corridor slanted over his face, highlighting the planes of his cheeks, and for a second Buffy just blinked; for a pain-in-her-ass monster, he looked eerily pretty ... at least until he spoke.

“Gonna kiss me like one of your French girls?”

“Ugh,” she said as he chuckled. “Just ... close your eyes and keep your hands by your side. _Don’t_ touch me.” 

“You always this kinky, Summers?” he said, but he begrudgingly obeyed, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. 

Her heart had started to pound, which was stupid. It wasn’t even like they hadn’t kissed under strange circumstances before, although this time it obviously wouldn’t bring the same tingly, swoony, _is it hot in here_ feelings given there was no spell making her think he was her soulmate. It was probably going to be like kissing an ashtray. 

“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. 

“Any normal bloke would’ve died of old age by now,” Spike said without opening his eyes. 

“I said no talking!” 

“ _No_ , you said no touching.”

“No nothing! Do nothing! Just stand there!” 

While he was smirking in a way that made her want to punch him, at least he went quiet again. 

With one last deep breath, she shoved her hands in her hoodie, closed her eyes and leaned forward for a closed-mouth kiss, making sure to keep a Catholic-school distance between their bodies. Unfortunately, all this meant is that she missed, her lips making contact with the corner of his mouth. Panicking, she shifted a few centimeters to the left and _oh._ Hello, vampire coolness that she’d told herself she only liked because of Angel. And his lips were still nicely ... firm. 

Spike gave a little twitch, and then his mouth started to part beneath hers. The briefest brush of tongue was enough to make her spring back. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, gaze blue and open. 

Flustered, she looked up to see if there’d been a change in the mistletoe, only to find it still hanging there, all mistletoe-y. When she touched it, it gave her another zap. 

“It didn’t work,” she said, not realizing how accusing it sounded until it was floating between them. 

For an odd moment, Spike looked guilty, but then he straightened, a defensive set to his shoulders. “Not like it was the most inspiring kiss.” 

“ _Excuse me_?” 

“Got more exciting ones from my grandmother. In the eighteen hundreds.” 

His words pricked at that old insecurity. Fine, two-thirds of the guys she’d slept with hadn’t come back for round two, but she and Riley had had lots and lots and lots of sex--sometimes with _outfits_ \--and it’s not like he’d ever complained … Unless you counted him getting out of bed in the middle of the night to go be sucked on by lady vampires. But then again, she’d also gotten out of their bed to go chase vampires. 

_Whatever_ , if she _wanted_ to kiss Spike in a way that blew his freaking mind, she could. But she didn’t, because he was an evil _asshole._

“It’s not supposed to be _fun_ ,” she bit out. “We’re not doing this for _fun_. We’re doing this to stop massive carnage--and you know what, maybe it’s not working because _you’re_ not really an enemy anymore.” 

Spike went still. “Why would you say that?” 

“Well, I mean, have you really even done anything other than annoy me for _a year_?” His nostrils flared, but she didn’t stop. “I mean, yeah, you’ve tried, but at the end of the day, an enemy needs to be at least semi-threatening. You’re just ...” 

“Just what?” he said, his jaw set.

She leaned forward. “ _Im-po-tent_.” 

He pushed himself off the door jamb, sharply enough that Buffy had to take a step back or else risk falling on her butt. “Been around a long time, pet, long enough to know that a man who’s satisfied in the sack doesn’t exit stage left at the first rough patch. You keep making notches on the bedpost, but eventually they get up and run off, don’t they? I mean, at what point do you start reevaluating your technique?” he continued, waving a dismissive hand at her. “Not that the deranged sherpa look isn’t one for the ages.”

“My technique is fine.” 

“Sure about that? Because--”

Grabbing his coat, she slammed him back into the doorframe, hard enough that whatever he was going to say whooshed out of him in a little grunt. His blue eyes widened in surprise, and that surprise was thrilling, because he didn’t _know_ her. Who was he to tell her what she could and couldn’t do? He should be so lucky to have her kissing him, he should be down on his knees _begging_ her to kiss him, and oh, wasn’t that an image? 

If you asked her later, she would swear that she meant to fling him into one of the shoe shelves. Instead, she crashed her lips against his. 

This time there were no closed mouths. There were tongues, and there were teeth, and there was touching, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she angled her head to the side for a deeper kiss, his hands sliding down her back to grab her ass and pull her closer. It felt like it had when they were under the spell. (Why did it feel like it had when they were under the spell?!) If this was what kissing an ashtray was like, she thought wildly, maybe she’d been missing out by not kissing ashtrays. 

But she didn’t have time to settle on that thought because with a low growl he spun her so her back was against the jamb and then he was kissing her again, and again, until somehow, through no fault of her own, her legs were not on the ground anymore but wrapped around his waist, where she could feel just how _inspiring_ this kiss was for him. 

_Ha!_ she thought, grinding against him, but then triumph fled because when he tugged on her bottom lip with his teeth a bolt of lust shot right down between her legs and she groaned, arching against him--

Something plopped on her head, and she pulled away with a little gasp. 

The mistletoe was now resting on the scuffed tops of Spike’s black boots. 

When she looked up, Spike was still staring at her lips, panting, with an undisguised desire that made heat lick up her entire body. 

_Oh God._

“Oh God,” she echoed aloud, pushing at his chest until he let her down. 

“Buffy ...” he said. 

But she was already running for the exit. 

  
  


*

It had been like his dream. 

It had been exactly like his bloody dream--all anger, and fire, and heat ... although, admittedly, the running away part was new. Turns out that was a lucky break, as otherwise he’d have blurted out all of his feelings like a lovesick schoolboy and/or come in his pants. As it was, he should take a few seconds before following her. 

He bent down and picked up the fallen mistletoe. He was going to find some wood and frame it. He was going to write it a fucking sonnet. Bugger that--he was going to find this Ethan Rayne chap and write _him_ a sonnet, because the man had done more to get the Slayer warm and wriggling in his arms than Spike had managed despite hours of fevered imaginings. _Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day, you beautiful fucking warlock._

Buffy put on the prim-and-proper act, but she felt it too, this crackling thing between them. He’d known they’d be bloody brilliant in bed, even before he’d loved her madly. Known it from the way they fought. Good fucking was like good fighting, when you came right down to it--having the ability to anticipate and surprise in equal measure; to know one’s partner enough to please but not to bore. 

As he left the shop, Spike whistled, feeling lighter than he had in years. He would find Buffy and they could finally ditch the posturing. She’d probably have some reservations, sure--he had tried to turn that Frankenbugger against her friends, and there was the whole thing with the doctor and the chip and the pouncing on her, but that was the past. This? This was the bright fucking future. 

Only when he stepped out of the store, Buffy was nowhere in sight. 

Shifting into vamp face, he sniffed, then turned toward the mall’s center atrium. First item of business was to get her out of that disgusting sweatshirt, which was adding an unwelcome hint of chemical tang to what was otherwise heady slayer. But as he followed the scent past the wonderland of glittery bullshit set up for St. Nick, his steps began to slow. 

It still smelled like Buffy--and the wanker--but there was also a strong note of _fear,_ which, yeah, could be its own aphrodisiac, but he’d only smelled a hint of Buffy’s twice, once the night her mum had ended up braining him with an ax, once when she’d been under that spell that made her weak and whimpering. It was annoying how little she feared him, really--but why _now_ of all times? 

When he finally found her, she was sitting on the wide pink counter of a shop called Sweets & Things, one of those cheery places with pastel murals and counter freezers offering thirty-one flavors of constipation. A sprig of mistletoe hung above her. 

He shook off his fangs. “Buffy, we need to--”

The words died in his throat when he caught the look in her eyes. 

The shattered expression was back, and this time it was coupled with a frantically racing heartbeat. 

Somehow, he’d fucked up again. But, no, hold on a second. He hadn’t done anything but follow her rules. _She_ was the one who’d slammed him into the door and stuck her tongue down his throat. He was about to tell her as much when her face changed to something infinitely more terrifying. 

Back when Angel was Angelus and the four of them were tearing their way through Europe and Asia, his grandsire had accused Spike of having a death wish, flinging himself at scrape after scrape without a care in the world. But that only went to show that Angel was a plonker with the emotional intelligence of coal, because Spike never went into a fight he didn’t think he _could_ win, were Lady Luck to decide to give him a wink. He knew when death was close, and while he may love to dance with it, he also knew when to avoid it. Those senses were why he was over a hundred fucking years old. 

Right now, those senses were screaming that his death had never been closer. It was possible it hung on his next words ... which meant they shouldn’t be _I love you, you maddening bitch_ or _So, if one were to put a timeline on the fucking …_

“So are you going to kiss me or what?” Buffy said flatly, her face nothing but pure slayer. Sure, she looked the picture of innocence, with her pigtails and her angry penguin pajamas, but every undead cell said this was a trap. Any stake she had hidden in that slouchy number sure as fuck wasn’t plastic woodgrain, not to mention there was a cup of little sample spoons right by her hip; if she had a mind to shove one in his heart, he couldn’t stop her. 

“Look, love, maybe we should ...” 

Her eyes flared. “Do _not_ call me that. In fact, do not talk more than necessary because it just … confuses things.” When he started to speak, she made a little mouth-snapping motion with her hands. “We touch lips and go home. Understand?” 

“But that doesn’t--” 

“I _said_ no talking,” she snapped, and the sizzle of death in the room intensified. 

Spike hesitated. Somehow, the train of this conversation had skipped the tracks and was currently barreling toward a body on the rails--his. 

“We don’t have all night,” she said.

He took a few steps forward. “So you want me to ...” 

“Kiss me,” she said impatiently. 

“Right. You wanna, uh ...” He made a gesture that she should part her legs, as the alternative was pressing his cock against her knees as they kissed, and while it had definitely rethought its previous level of enthusiasm, that would change the second he got another taste of her lips, sudden appearance of pod slayer or no. 

“No, I do not wanna. Just kiss me and get this over with.” 

His cock twitched at that bossy little voice; apparently it didn’t need a taste of her lips. “Gonna be kind of--”

“Just do it, Spike.” 

Fuck it. If he died by sample spoon, at least this bloody nonsense would be over. Pressing himself against her knees, he swooped forward to claim her lips, hand sliding behind her neck to better angle her head up. He felt a little thrill as her mouth opened instinctively, and he pressed himself forward. But he barely had time to settle in, much less deepen it, before she gasped and pushed him back halfway across the room. 

“What was that?” she demanded. 

“A bloody kiss!” 

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That is _not_ what we agreed on.” 

Spike stared at her. Had he actually fallen in love with another madwoman? He hadn’t thought the Slayer was _completely fucking mental_ , but here they were. Was she really just going to ignore what was right in front of their bloody faces? 

“Well, what we agreed on doesn’t fucking work, now does it?” he said, pointing at the very much still-hanging mistletoe. When she only glared, lips pressed together, he pulled the first sprig from his pocket. “This one fell, and we both know why.” 

“No, no, we both do not know why. That was a fluke. That was a--is that _underwear_?” 

Spike actually looked at what he was holding. The mistletoe, yeah, but also the peach thong. _Balls._ Ripping it off, he stuffed it back in his coat. 

“Why are you carrying around a _thong_?” Buffy was saying, clearly eager to grab the distraction with both hot, powerful little hands. 

This train had skipped all tracks entirely and was now barreling toward a cliff. 

“Not bloody important. What’s important is the fact that _that_ ”--he pointed to the mistletoe again--“doesn’t seem to respond unless we’re both enjoying what we’re doing ... Like before.” 

Her expression could still wither plants, but the high note of fear was back, and the hummingbird heartbeat. He needed to proceed cautiously. 

“Makes sense, from a magic perspective,” he continued. “Warlock said his loophole was unbreakable, yeah? Not going to say that if all you need is to grab two footie fans in opposing jumpers and make them snog.” 

Buffy threw up her hands. “Speak English, Spike!” 

He bit down a more colorful response about his English versus hers. “I _mean_ , the spell doesn’t just break when enemies snog; it breaks when enemies _like_ snogging one another. Because that’s far harder to find.” He took a chance and let his eyes roam over her. “Luckily ...” 

She stiffened. “I _don’t_ like you.” 

He didn’t know why that stung. The apology speech wasn’t the only thing he’d practiced with the mannequin; he’d tried to practice how to tell her about his feelings, but it always ended up ... well, with her saying something like that. He wasn’t stupid, at least not when he was able to look at things clear-eyed. He knew this love was wrong and hopeless. Knew she loathed him. Knew she had _reasons_ to loathe him, although on good days, he thought he could give her reasons not to if she’d only give him the chance. 

But he wasn’t going to have the chance if they couldn’t get through the next hour or so without her killing him. So, despite the feelings burbling in his chest, Spike grit his teeth and said what had to be said. 

“And I”-- _bloody fucking love you_ \--“ _hate_ you. Doesn’t mean you didn’t like kissing me.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he tapped the side of his nose. “Can smell when you get all hot and bothered. And you were. Bet if we pry apart those penguinned knees, I’d smell it more.” 

Buffy made a choking sound, twin blushes staining her cheeks. “You’re a _pig_ , Spike,” she said, but her eyes flicked down before skittering off to study the mural’s pastel hills. “And don’t act like you weren’t ... into it too.” 

“Will admit to having a certain intellectual curiosity about Slayers in the sack,” he said, shrugging when she made a sound of disgust. “And there’s always something hot about shagging the enemy.” 

Her gaze snapped back to his. “We’re _not_ sleeping together. I only do that with people I love.” 

“Oh, come on. Can’t tell me you loved that floppy-haired git last year.” 

“ _No_ , but I was planning to,” she insisted. “I thought he wanted a relationship.” 

“And you always plan who you’re going to love, do you?” 

“I do now,” she said softly, and as much as Spike wanted to deny it, he knew exactly whose name hung in the sugar-scented air between them. He studied her then, this tiny slip of a woman who fought and argued and laughed with the passion of a supernova, but who didn’t want to feel it because she’d gotten burned by a fucking waste of a vampire whose two hundred years on earth weren’t worth a second of hers. 

“Look,” he said. “This wasn’t how I thought I’d be spending my evening either”-- _it’s a metric fuckton better--“_ but it’s not like we have a choice. Least not if we want the hellmouth at its usual hell levels.” 

She was frowning at the mural now, which made it even harder to gauge what was going on between those pigtails. A feeling of intense nerves crept in then, one he could swear he hadn’t felt since he’d found Cecily in that alcove so many dusty years ago. 

“So, what say you, Slayer? Another truce?” 

*

As the synthetic chords of McCartney kicked up again, Buffy studied the pastel hills of rolling ice cream, because one, it was ice cream and it was calming, and two, it was better than looking at the evil and unfortunately sense-making vampire in front of her. 

It wasn’t like any of her choices here were great. And as much as she hated to say it, it was true that her anger and frustration back in the shoe store had morphed into something else. That _low-down tickle_ that Faith was always yammering about in relation to slaying. She’d sworn up and down that was not a thing, but okay, fine, it kind of was. 

And in this case, that low-down tickle was the only thing that was going to get them out of this mess. Really, she was only giving into the low-down tickle to save Christmas. And puppies! 

“Okay,” she said, finally looking back. “But for the record, some people _like_ low-fat yogurt.” They did. She felt very passionate about this. 

Once again, she’d startled the smirky-ness from Spike’s face. 

“A couple of rules, though. One. We never speak of this again after this night. Not a syllable. If you even find me in the cemetery and wiggle your eyebrows, I will twist your head from your body with my bare hands.” 

Spike’s eyes glittered. “Fine.” 

“Two. The mistletoe demands that we make out, but that’s all the mistletoe demands. If hands go places hands shouldn’t go, you will no longer have hands.” 

“Most consider hands part of the enjoyment package.” 

“Then consider yourself living dangerously,” she said, then realized her mistake, because this was the guy whose vampire resume was: _Pursued danger, stupidly._ But before she could take it back, he licked his teeth. 

“Understood. But I’ve a demand too.” 

She tensed. “If it’s that you still want to get _paid_ for this--”

“Nah. It’s that loverboy’s sweatshirt comes off. Smell of corn puts me off.” He lowered his eyelashes. “Unless, you aren’t wearing any--”

“Fine,” she said, pulling it off and throwing it in the corner, thankful she’d opted to put on a black tank today. Not like she really wanted to do this while wearing anything boyfriend-y, anyway. 

In some ways, she told herself, this would be a good lesson. Despite having typed “convents near me” into the little Yahoo! bar yesterday, she didn’t actually want to be a nun for the rest of her life. But given the rest of her life would probably be short, she was starting to doubt that a guy who could deal with the whole slayer package was ever going to come along. That was the thing that really hurt about Riley. She’d put so much work into him, and then he’d hopped on a helicopter and _poof!_

Maybe she couldn’t go into these things looking for love; maybe it was time to settle for hormones, for kisses at parties with someone who didn’t feel neglected when something happened with her mom, or when the apocalypse beeper beeped. Not that that’s why she was doing this with Spike, but hey, if she could make _this_ work ... 

Realizing she’d zoned out a little, she snapped back to the present. But Spike was doing some zoning of his own, staring at her chest. It didn’t take long to realize why. 

“It’s an ice cream shop,” she said. “I’m essentially sitting on a freezer.” 

“Mm.” 

Buffy’s stomach was doing odd things. On one hand, a deep, dark part of her felt a thrill that the vague hint of her nipples being nipple-y had made Mr. “Buffy’s Not Worth a Second Go” speechless. On the other ...

“Take your coat off,” she blurted, which at least made him stop staring at her boobs. “And the red shirt. If I’m in a T-shirt, you have to be in one too.” 

He smirked. “As my mistress commands.” 

The low-down tickle tickled low down at that. There really was no accounting for what the low-down tickle liked. 

Spike slipped off his coat and shirt and hung them on a nearby wrought-iron chair. “Want me to take this off too?” he said, hooking a finger in his collar. 

He was joking. She knew he was joking. But ... so much of what she thought of as Spike was in the clothes, the hair, the jacket, the ugly-ass jewelry. Taking some of those things away made it easier to think this was just a hot guy she’d decided to make out with because she was newly single, and probably would be single forever. 

And besides, if he had no shirt while she kept hers, she was winning this shirt war. 

“Yeah,” she said, liking how he blinked in surprise. 

But then he did it. 

_Holy chiseled abs, Batman._ She hadn’t expected the muscles. They were all pale and ... ripply. 

“Like what you see?” Spike said, voice low. 

“It’s ... not entirely disgusting,” she said, hoping the light was dim enough to hide her blush. When he started to approach, she instinctively scooted back. 

He stopped, hands raised. “This OK?” he said, eyes flicking to what turned out to be a cup of wooden sample spoons. 

“Yeah,” she said. “Not sure I could even stake you with those.” 

“Learned a long time ago not to underestimate you,” he said. 

Buffy was strangely warmed at that ... but that could also be because of the blood she felt zinging around her body like it was field day. Was it hot in here? Did this place sell hot ice cream? 

When she looked up, Spike was standing right in front of her, pecs level with her eyes. She didn’t want to look at his face, and she _definitely_ didn’t want to look down, so she found herself staring at the glossy pink spot where Riley had stabbed him before blowing out of town. Hell of a _sayonara_ to-do list, that guy. 

Frowning, she touched it lightly. “He shouldn’t have done that.” 

When Spike said nothing, she looked up to find his jaw working overtime. 

“Do we really have to talk about your former?” he finally bit out. “Just got rid of the shirt.” 

“Right. Sorry,” Buffy said, and took a deep breath as she put her hands flat on the counter and leaned back. “So.” 

“So.” 

Somehow, this felt more awkward than the sterile kisses. She’d forgotten what it was like to be this close to a vampire, the way the tinglies felt like a delicious full-body massage. Not that these tinglies would be there if she ever did this with a non-vamp guy. 

She had to remember that. 

“So,” she repeated, then cut off in a little gasp because Spike’s hands were on her knees, slowly pulling them apart, and as they did, heat sizzled up her thighs _._

And then, hello, Spike was standing between her legs. 

“Better,” he said, and then his eyes fixed on her lips like they were the most fascinating things he’d ever seen. Cupping her cheek, he ran a thumb over her lower one. 

Buffy was overcome with the urge to bite it, and not in a _get off me_ way. More in a _see, you don’t know me_ way. 

So she did. 

Spike’s eyelids lowered, until he was all hooded gaze. It was, she decided, a look she liked. 

He swooped down, like he had before, but this time, she didn’t immediately press her lips closed. And although she would never admit this aloud to _anyone_ , ever, ever, ever: man, did this evil dead guy know how to kiss. 

It wasn’t tentative, not at all, but it also wasn’t bruising, more ... teasing, lips and tongue pressing hard then darting back just when she wanted more, so she’d have to chase them. One of his hands was behind her neck, angling her head up, and the other was on her back, sliding lower and lower until it came to rest in the small of it, cool fingers sneaking under her shirt until they were touching bare skin. 

The next time he deepened the kiss, he tugged her forward on the counter, and she could feel the outline of his belt buckle against her stomach. She could feel the outline of his--

There was a _shoosh_ of something falling, and it was enough for Buffy to pull back, blinking. 

The mistletoe was defeated, lying on its side by her hip. 

Spike cleared his throat and took a step back. “Think it worked.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Buffy picked up the sprig, twirled it a little by its stem because it gave her an excuse to avoid Spike’s eyes. This was the problem with the whole hate-kissing thing, or even the kissing without wanting anything romantic, because then what did you talk about afterwards? _Hey, still don’t like you, but have your tongue call me._ And that was before you factored in the evilness of the tongue. Where that tongue had been. What one’s friends would think if they knew that while you really did hate the vampire, you were apparently more mixed on the vampire’s tongue. 

“So, where we going next?” Spike said with a hint of wariness--which was a surprise, given the boldness of his initial sales pitch. Although maybe she had freaked out a little. And was on her way to freaking out again, if she continued following this thought trail. 

_Christmas. Puppies._

“Right,” she said, hopping off the counter and going to pull the list from the puddle of Riley’s sweatshirt. “A store called North Pole. A pop-up, maybe?” 

Spike chuckled. “No.” 

“What?” 

He jerked his head toward the exit, then strode out of the shop without even pausing to put his shirt back on. Tucking the list into her waistband, she followed. 

She found him again in front of the red-and-white candy gate that marked the beginning of Santa’s domain. The sign above, dripping in puffy fake snow, said “North Pole.” 

“Seriously?” Buffy said. 

“Got an elf fetish? If so, it’s your lucky day.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Let’s just find out where the mistletoe is.” 

As it turned out, the mistletoe was not in the cardboard gingerbread house. Nor was it in the giant sleigh filled with shiny fake presents, nor in any of the arches that led up to the grand platform where Santa sat peddling E-Z Bake Ovens and Lego sets. 

“Found it!” Spike cried out in glee as she was checking the giant wire reindeer sculptures. 

She stomped up Santa’s stairs to the little ribbon-wrapped pergola, only to stop dead in her tracks. 

Spike was lounging in the large ornate chair meant for Santa, wearing his hat at a rakish angle. Since he was also _not_ wearing a shirt, it was like something found in the calendar her mom tried to hide in their laundry room. 

As her heartbeat kicked up, he pointed to the ceiling. There, at the centermost point of the pergola, right over Santa’s giant chair, was the mistletoe. 

“How’d Ethan even get it _up_ there?” 

Spike shrugged. “Must’ve asked someone.” He ran his eyes over her body. “I’m more interested in knowing exactly how naughty the Slayer’s been this year.” 

“This is _perverse_.” 

“Yep,” Spike said, patting his lap. “Now come tell Old St. Spike what you want for Christmas.” 

“I want you not to call yourself Old St. Spike,” she said, but it was half-hearted, as she was mostly trying to figure out if there was a way to avoid straddling him. But the throne-like chair was not only wide, it was deep; even if Spike sat on its edge, they’d be far from under it. 

When she met Spike’s eyes, they were twinkling like ... well, like evil undead Santa Claus’s. 

“Remember what I said about the head-twisting if you tell anyone about this?” 

“Yes, Slayer.” 

Biting her lip, she climbed onto his lap, her knees straddling his thighs. As soon as she did, Spike pulled her close; apparently he wanted to start where they’d stopped in the ice cream store. 

“This okay?” he asked, hands sliding up until his thumbs were brushing the sides of her breasts. 

Licking her lips, she nodded. Spike, slayer of Slayers, asking for permission to touch her with that rumbly voice, was doing things to her. And she was pretty sure he knew it too, because his thumbs had moved up to brush bare skin. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let those thumbs go lower, but ... 

_Mistletoe requires kissing, not nipple rubbing_ , kicked up a dim, very dim voice in her mind, and so she got down to business. 

His lips were warmer now--because of her heat, she realized. This position let her really lean in, and Spike responded in kind, no more teasing kisses but long deep ones that were making her head spin. His thumbs brushed over her nipples, and she froze for a second, but then allowed it; who could say it was intentional, and right now, they had a job to do ... a job that she would remember any second now. 

Spike’s thumbs brushed over her nipples again, and okay, so that was probably on purpose. She opened her mouth to warn him about hands, but then his mouth left hers to start kissing down her cheek, then her neck, then her bite scars and _oh holy crap_ , the only thing coming out of her mouth was a little moan-gasp thing because he’d sucked on them in a way that made her believe, really believe, in the magic of Christmas. 

_Mistletoe_. The annoying voice intruded again, and it was enough to make Buffy open her eyes and see that the pergola’s ceiling was empty. 

“Spike,” she said, pushing at his shoulders until he reluctantly raised his head. “It’s gone.” 

“What’s gone?” he said, eyes still on her neck. 

She pulled back, looking around them until she spotted it, in the corner of the chair. “The mistletoe fell.” They hadn’t even noticed it. “Which means we should go.” 

For a second she felt his fingers flex against her back and then he released her. “Yeah. Where to next?” 

She pulled the list from her waist. It was kind of a sweaty list now. “Uh ... Mutts and Butts? _Really_ hoping that’s a pet store.” 

Spike snorted, but then looked at her. “Part of going is you getting up, you know. Unless you want me to push you onto the floor.” 

“Oh. Right,” she said, ignoring the little twinge of disappointment at the distance it put between her and all those muscles. 

As she stood up, her eyes couldn’t help but take in the full picture, and the full picture included both a pale washboard of abs, and the now very obvious bulge in his black jeans. She’d known he was hard, of course, because she’d felt it, and even maybe … wiggled up against it one or two times. Wiggles of … duty? 

“Meet you there!” she squeaked, and then headed down the stairs. 

  
  


*

As soon as Buffy had skipped off, Spike looked down. Christ, this was a special kind of torture. He wasn’t adverse to edge play, but it helped when the other person knew they were doing it. And when they actually planned on touching his dick at some point. 

Spike stared into the eyes of a ruddy cardboard elf, hoping it would help calm his rogue erection before round four of what? Ten? _Bloody hell._ He considered wanking to let off some steam, but then rejected it; if he didn’t show up at the next spot soon, she’d come looking for him, and he was pretty sure _that_ would be a sight that would put them back at square one. 

What followed was one of the weirdest, most sexually charged hours of Spike’s life, even when the mistletoe took them to stores that were the opposite of romantic. Like the pet store, where a bulbous goldfish stared at them as they kissed up against an aquarium, and the children’s clothing store, where he couldn’t help but muse, even as Buffy’s nails dug into his ass before fluttering away, why people put bears on baby items when bears were fucking terrifying. 

But for every store that helped cool his lust, there was one that fueled it. Like the furniture store where the mistletoe hung over one of those long chaises, or the Sharper Image, where it hung over a massage chair. Each time, Buffy’s rules about hands became looser, as did, apparently, her reservations about grinding up against him as they kissed. In the store full of kitchen doodads, he’d cupped her tit over her shirt for a good five seconds without her batting an eye, and in the vibrating chair, he’d even slid his hand under her shirt and brushed the bottom of her tit, and she’d given a little sigh then, one that sounded exactly like those he’d heard floating out her window, but louder, throatier, and even a breathy little gasp that he was pretty sure he hadn’t. 

What’s more, as they walked from one store to another, she started to talk to him. He knew the chatter was mostly to fill space; ironically, her heartbeat started to kick up even more the second their hands were off one another, because even as she rattled on about long-ago sales and this one time in L.A. that she and a friend had actually broken the footrest of one of those vibrating chairs and then just walked away (naughty slayer!), he could see her mind working on the puzzle of what they were doing, and what it meant. 

And then there was only one store left. 

“Sweet Escapes,” Buffy said, chest still heaving a bit. Christ, he wanted to get her shirt off, see if all his imaginings did reality justice. “Do you think it’s another ice cream store?” 

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe it’s a ...” 

“What?” 

“Dunno. We can check the guide ... thing.” While nerves were making Buffy a sparkling conversationalist, he was going the opposite direction, along with the blood supposed to be flowing to his brain. 

After confirming Sweet Escapes’ location at the end of a small nook by the Macy’s, they headed that way. As they did, Spike started to drag his feet and Buffy chattered nervously about how it must be new because she’d walked this mall a lot. Like a lot, a lot. She could probably get a tattoo from memory. 

God, he was going to miss this. The snogging and the petting, yeah, but also her halfway talking to him like he wasn’t dirt on her shoe. Spike suddenly felt like he was holding a broken hourglass, sand slipping through his fingers. 

It was because of these dark thoughts that at first he didn’t realize why Buffy’d sucked in a little breath. 

Sweet Escapes was not an ice cream shop, although it definitely encouraged the licking of things.

While they’d done their best to shield innocent eyes with purple curtains over the windows and doors, the neon sign and the artsy soft-focus coffee table books in the display teased what was inside. 

“Want me to pick the lock?” he said.

Buffy just nodded, suddenly back to being all nerves. 

Pulling out the pin he kept in his wallet, he crouched down and worked the tumbler until he heard that satisfying snick. Standing up, he held the door. “After you.” 

Breezing past, Buffy fumbled at the light switches until a row of lights in the back of the store clicked on, illuminating an impressive multicolored display of vibrators. 

“I’ll find the mistletoe,” she said, eyes skittering away. 

As she started to look, Spike headed to the back, where he ostensibly studied the vibrators while giving her time to adjust to the situation, something he learned helped keep the icy wall of slayer pride from reforming. It was interesting, this dance she did. Challenge her directly, and she’d armor up and prepare for battle. Leave her be, she’d surprise you by softening and taking the lead. 

He picked up a large pink vibrator. It’d been a while since he’d used one of these with Dru, and the majority of them had been the clunkier versions that still at least tried for the illusion of being a back massager. Although, after watching a rerun of _Sex and the City_ while holed up in Brazil, he’d considered finding one of the rabbity ones for curiosity’s sake, but then nixed it because the few times Dru caught him watching the show she just hissed at Charlotte. Which was mad, because if she should hiss at any of them, it should’ve been Carrie. 

“It’s another counter one,” Buffy said, and when he turned, it was to find her sitting on a glass display case filled with handcuffs and those little teasing feather whips. “So stop messing with the dildos and come here.” 

“Not dildos,” he said. “Vibrators.” 

She blushed. “Whatever. Stop messing with them.” 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never used a vibrator,” he said, then wanted to bite his own tongue, because she stiffened. 

“I had a boyfriend until, like, oh, five days ago. And before that, was kind of in high school.” She pointed to the sign on the door that said _Eighteen and over._

Right. Sometimes he forgot how young she was. Not that Angel couldn’t have hauled his Neanderthal self to the shops and let the moths out of his wallet.

“Can be fun with a boyfriend, too. ’Specially the smaller ones,” he said, picking up a small purple finger vibrator and putting it on his index. “Gives the good touches a little something extra.” He waggled it at her. “But anyway ...” 

He stopped when he noticed Buffy’s lips had parted. 

“Pet?” 

*

She was not seriously considering this. 

She wasn’t. 

But if she was, it wasn’t her fault. It was Spike’s fault, for accidentally kneeing the button that started the vibrating chair during the last mistletoe kiss-fest. The shaking sensation, combined with the tinglies of Spike, and the lips of Spike, the bare chest of Spike, and honestly, the hardness of Spike that she was not thinking about, but also thinking about a lot, had left her aching to the point that she honestly didn’t even know if she could make it home to touch herself under the covers, or if she’d need to head to the bathroom like some horny ... elf. (God, the Santa thing had been twisted. And hot. And twisted.)

She was also curious.

One time, when she’d swung by Riley’s frat to surprise him, she’d barged into his room, he’d slammed his laptop so fast the bed bounced then tried to Midwestern his way through small talk while ignoring his unbuttoned fly. When his pager had beeped, he’d only left after some clear debate as to how weird it would look to just pick up the laptop and take it with him. 

After he’d left, she’d opened it to see a woman with a finger vibrator just like this one. After completing her assessment--bigger boobs, not as pretty or as toned--Buffy had watched as the woman genuinely moaned and panted, idly thinking that it was surprising this was what Riley got off to given he never put _that_ much effort into really making her writhe around on the bed. Sure, the sex was good and romantic, and they’d found a formula that was reliable for her as long as she had the time and inclination, but still ... 

Buffy was curious. 

Spike was still watching her, the purple vibrator on his finger. 

Really, if she thought about it, using the vibrator was _better_. The mistletoe thing they were doing was a necessary ( _hot_ ) evil, but if she could put an extra layer between herself and the evil vampire doing the necessary hot things, didn’t that make it better? It wasn’t Spike making her light up like a Christmas tree, it was the vibrator. 

When she finally spoke, her voice cracked. “Over the clothes, only. And we can’t use that one.” 

He sprung into action, nabbing one of the small boxes beneath the display, tearing it open, stealing the battery from the sample, and … triggering the one non-lusty brain cell she still possessed. 

“Crap. We can’t just--” 

Grabbing his wallet from his back pocket, Spike threw a wad of bills over the counter. 

“That’s too much!” she said as they rained down. Not to mention ...

“Poker winnings,” he said, and then before she could protest further, he was in front of her, his mouth on hers, kissing her with that same drugging intensity that had turned her into the kind of girl who would ... well, say yes to vibrator fun on a sex store counter. 

(For puppies!) 

How many times had they kissed now, she wondered as his hands moved behind her back, small little movements that made her anticipation build even as the little voice started calling out, as though now very far away, that when it started to feel natural again to kiss a vampire--to kiss _Spike_ \--maybe it was time to worry. 

She was about to call this off when a small hum sounded behind her. 

Spike deepened his kisses then, barely letting her up for air, almost as if he knew wanting it and seeing it were two very different things. And then she gasped against his lips, because one hand was on her breast and it was _that_ hand. 

“Shh,” he said between kisses, “just relax. It’s just like before.” 

Only it wasn’t, because as nice as Spike’s fingers were, they didn’t shiver like that against her nipple. 

“Oh,” she said against his mouth, as he started to trail the finger down between their bodies, leaving delicious little tingles over her cleavage, over her stomach and then down to the seam of her pants, which was honestly fairly damp right now. But her spread thighs meant there was an inch of space between that and where she wanted him to touch her. 

Spike pressed down hard, pushing the fabric against her, right over her clit. 

_Holy f--_

She tore her lips away from his and bit down on his shoulder, the pleasure shooting through her body too intense to concentrate on anything else. But no, she had to keep kissing him, because if they weren’t kissing, this didn’t count for the mistletoe which meant she’d have to stop. She recaptured his lips. 

The pressure of his finger retreated and the kissing continued. She’d slid her hands to his shoulders to give him more room to maneuver where it counted, and she could feel the impressions of her teeth on his left one. Crap, she’d really bitten him. Not that he’d seemed to mind. 

He pressed his finger down again, and this time she actually arched against it, trying to get closer to those lovely little tingles, only there were two layers of fabric in the way. 

“It’s okay,” she murmured against his lips, feeling half-crazed, and when he pulled back to meet her eyes with a question, she grabbed his wrist and guided his hand to her waistband, kissing him again before there could be any more questions. 

Spike did as she asked, gingerly moving his hand to the edge of the fuzzy fabric and then slipping under. She felt him hesitate when he came to the line of her panties, but then he veered above the satin. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he breathed. 

Feeling the old defensiveness kick up at that, she pulled away, mouth opening to say something ( _You’re soaked_ was the first response, not that it was a winner), but the need to speak died when she saw his face. There wasn’t any meanness there, nor cool triumph, just heat and lust and even a little bit of ...

Before she could think more on that, he pressed down again, and this time, with one layer of terrible fabric barrier removed, she actually cried out. 

“Lie down,” he said suddenly. “Angle’s better.” 

“On the counter?” she asked, voice breathier than she’d ever heard it. 

“No, on the moon,” he said, but the sarcasm was dulled by the urgency. “Yes, on the counter.” 

Body moving of its own volition now, she did as he asked, only for him to take away his hand. 

“Back soon, promise,” he said when she made a low sound in her throat, then climbed up to stretch out beside her, his boots clunking against the glass. 

The mistletoe above them was gone, Buffy noted dimly, had probably fallen long ago, but with Spike’s cool skin stretched along her body, Spike’s hand was sliding back beneath her waistband and she didn’t care. She didn’t care. For this one moment, she wasn’t going to care. The low-down tickle was in control. They’d gone so far anyway. 

Spike moved the vibrator in circles against her clit, and he was right--the angle was better. This time the pressure that had been building didn’t subside when the shivering heat went away. 

Her thighs trembled as Spike’s fingers slid to where her panties met skin, and even though he didn’t say anything, she nodded, and then--

She cried out, hips arching up. 

“That’s it, kitten,” he said. 

She wanted to tell him not to call her “kitten,” even as it made her clit pulse harder. But as she looked at him, she realized what the third part of that look on his face was. There was lust, and there was heat, and there was ...

Rolling toward him, her hands fumbled to undo his belt buckle, then his fly. If they were doing this, it couldn’t be just her. Because if it was just her, then that meant this was something he was giving to her, and that couldn’t be what this is, because that would mean--

With one last tug of his zipper, Spike’s cock was in her hand.

She kissed him before he could say anything, and started to move her hand over the silky length, pausing only a second when she came to the leaking tip; uncircumcised. Right. She didn’t really know how to--but oh, Spike was back to touching her now.

The next time she arched up against him, it was hard enough to knock the finger vibrator off. 

“Fuck,” he murmured against her lips, starting to pull his hand away. She grabbed his wrist. 

“It’s fine,” she said, kissing him again. She was going to come soon anyway, could feel the pleasure distilling into that sharp point. And as cool fingers replaced the textured jelly one, she realized “soon” was an understatement. 

“Oh God!” she moaned, as he stroked and caressed. He’d started by circling on the outside of her clit, but he was moving closer, and she was going to, she was going to--

\--and then the world shattered. As her body convulsed, she hooked a heel over his legs, pulling him closer. 

The world came back to her slowly. The hard glass beneath her side. Spike’s hand, still in her panties. And her hand, still around his--

“Oh,” she said, first because she realized she’d kind of forgotten about that in the midst of the most mind-blowing orgasm of her life, and then because she realized it hadn’t mattered anyway, because Spike had definitely come too, largely on her hand, but also where their bodies had been touching. 

Realising her legs’ death grip on his, she scooted back, Spike’s hand slipping out of her pants with the errant vibrator. 

She sat up. “I should--” 

He stretched behind her and grabbed something from beside the cash register. Two seconds later, he handed her tissues. 

“Thanks,” she said, but then hopped off the counter, avoiding his eyes. “I think I’m still going to go find a--”

“Alright.” 

She forced herself to look at him, not sure what she was more scared of seeing: smugness, that she’d just come all over his hand while giving what may have been the worst handjob of her life, or the thing she thought she’d seen one minute before that happened. 

What she found was neither. While his jeans were still unbuttoned, belt undone, he’d tucked himself away and was leaning up on his elbows, expression largely impassive. 

Maybe she hadn’t seen what she thought she’d seen. 

  
  


*

Her face in the bathroom mirror was flushed, her hair tangled around her shoulders. She looked well-kissed. 

And confused. 

Buffy took her time, washing her hands and dabbing at the bottom of her tank top with a paper towel. As she did, she realized McCartney was still playing. God, she hadn’t even heard it for, like, the last hour, not since sitting on the counter of the ice cream shop. It was like the whole world had fallen away. 

She froze, the memory of Riley’s break-up speech swimming up. It didn’t mean anything, she told herself. It was just because the words had been floating in her head on repeat for the past few days. 

Smoothing her hair one last time, she headed out of the restroom, ignoring the part of her that was relieved to see Spike waiting for her at the end of the hallway. She’d been telling herself that maybe it was better if he just disappeared into the night, but also ... yeah. 

He was fully dressed again, complete with red shirt and coat. In his hands was Riley’s sweatshirt, and he was doing an admirable job of not sneering at it. Well, semi-admirable. 

“Thanks,” she said, taking it, but not putting it back on. “Didn’t know if you’d be here, honestly.” 

Spike gave her a look. “Call me old-fashioned, but I was taught to walk a girl to the door after coming all over her hand.” 

Buffy gave a startled laugh. But then ... oh God. 

“Spike ...”

“Aren’t out of the mall yet,” he said quickly. “Gotta talk about it while I can.” 

And yet he was silent after that, silent as she undid the locks on the doors of the side exit, and silent as they stood in the glare of security spotlights. 

She looked at her jeep. Should Buffy offer him a ride? Or should she just lie down and ask him to run over her with its tires, because God, this awkwardness sucked. Was it going to be like this forever? 

His jaw was working overtime again, and it was clear he was trying to find what he wanted to say next. Buffy realized then that if Spike wanted to truly destroy her, this was the moment. Tonight she’d cried in front of him, had some sort of dissociative meltdown in front of him, kissed him like a billionty times, and then went way, way beyond the call of duty. All he’d need to do was ask her questions about any of those things, and a part of her would just collapse. And she couldn’t deal with that, because there was mom, and there was Riley, and there was Dawn, and there was--

“Well, gonna head off,” he said finally. “Tunnel calling my name.” 

The relief was crushing. 

“See you ’round, Slayer. Look forward to hating you again in the future.” 

“Right,” she said, grateful that he at least knew how to semi-manage this. “Samesies.” 

And then, with a little two-fingered salute, he disappeared around the side of the building. 

  
  


*

  
  


As it turned out, while the US government may not have put much stock in tales of magic, covens of witches did. Two days after Buffy’s little mall adventure, a group of women took Ethan away on a wave of patchouli with promises to sort him out. 

True to his word, Giles never asked and Buffy never told. Willow, on the other hand … Buffy had managed to dodge her questions so far with mom updates, but it wouldn’t last forever. 

The next few days were full of Christmas preparations, and while some were still done to a soundtrack of weepy music, she sometimes let Dawn turn on the radio. Sure, she still had fantasies of what it might’ve been like to one day go to Iowa, and meet Riley’s parents, and eat his mother’s famous sour cream raisin pie, whatever that was, and wave at cows and ... vote? She didn’t know much about Iowa. And now she didn’t have to. Which, honestly, was kind of a relief. 

She was wrapping up a fun scarf for her mother when a familiar synthesized intro struck. 

_The mood is right. The spirit’s up. We’re here tonight. And that’s enough._

“Ugh, I hate this song!” Dawn said, leaning across the bed to turn the station, but Buffy stilled her with a hand. 

That night, while taking a really long shower, Buffy wondered for the fortieth time why she hadn’t taken the vibrator. Spike had, after all, paid like two hundred dollars for it. 

Spike, who she didn’t see at all. 

Not that she cared. She’d decided to think of it as a rebound thing--people did crazy things after breakups, sitcoms told her so. It was fine. At least now she knew she could kiss (and more) someone without starting to plan out a five-year relationship in her head. 

And so Christmas came, and it went, a little more low-key than usual--or more Key than usual, depending on how one thought about it. Her mother felt good enough to sit on the couch after dinner and presents and watch _A Wonderful Life_ , stroking Dawn’s hair all the while like she always had, at least in monkish memory. 

“Oh, wait, we missed a present!” Dawn said as the credits rolled, rustling in the depths of the tree. She emerged with a silver package. 

Buffy’s mom startled. “Not that one, honey,” but Dawn was already reading the tag. 

Joyce squeezed Buffy’s shoulder. “I wrapped everything before I went into the hospital, including Riley’s, just in case. I’m so sorry, honey.” 

“Do I need to get the Alanis CD?” Dawn asked. 

“No,” Buffy said. “You guys are sweet, but it’s fine. I mean, I miss him, but I think--” 

The doorbell rang. 

“I’ll get it,” Buffy said. “Xander said he and Anya might be dropping by.” 

Instead she found a rectangular bow-less package, wrapped in newspaper sporting the headline: “Camera Outage at Mall Leaves Guards Baffled; Lingerie Store Ransacked.” 

She’d forgotten to make Spike clean up the underwear. 

“Who is it?” Joyce called from the living room. 

“A delivery!” Buffy called, scooping up the present and carrying it upstairs and placing it on the bed. 

When it came to presents from vampires, her track record was not great. Still ...

Quickly, before she could regret it, Buffy tore it open, revealing a tan box that seemed harmless enough. Taped on top was a receipt, and on the back, in surprisingly lovely handwriting: 

_If you twist my head off, make it fast. --S_

She opened the box. 

Boots. Tan, suede, and oh-so-slouchy. 

“What’s that?” said a voice behind her. When she whirled around, Dawn was in the doorway, eying the boot she’d clutched to her chest. 

“Uh, just shoes I ordered.” 

“Who delivers on Christmas?” Dawn said, coming over to the bed to poke through the shoebox’s tissue paper. “Oh hey, they sent you something else,” she said, pulling out a small purple pouch and looking inside before Buffy could stop her. “It’s some weird jelly ring.” 

Blushing, Buffy grabbed it. “Yeah, free gift with purchase. Go back downstairs with Mom. I’ll be there in a second.” 

After her sister left, Buffy went to the window, anticipation bubbling despite herself. 

But there was nothing. Just the cool, dark night. 

*

Spike took a final drag of his cigarette, then squashed it. As loitering trees went, this was not the best on Buffy’s street by far, but it was one that shielded him completely. There was a very good chance that a brassed-off slayer would be storming out the door in three … two … one …

But no, wait, there she was, a silhouette in the window. 

He took a few steps forward before he could stop himself, then halted with a curse, because hurling proclamations of love up at her had not been the _plan_ , the one he’d devised after nearly bollixing things all up by hurling his heart at her feet three nights ago outside the mall. Because he’d learned a few things on their one night together. 

One, that the Slayer was not immune to him--he’d almost rolled off the counter when she’d undone his belt, when she’d traced his scar with those delicate fingers. But also that the girl was skittish about flinging her heart out there, and a part of him, the part that didn’t think with his cock, even understood why. 

It was what he’d realized in the sex shop, about the dance. He’d told her once that dancing was all they’d ever done, and he’d been wrong-headed to think that would just stop the second she gave him a glance as a potential partner. 

As much as he hated it ... this, with her, was a slow dance. 

And that meant patience. 

_Fuck,_ he thought as he turned to walk away. It was going to take a bleeding miracle. 

Lucky for him, it was Christmas. 

**Author's Note:**

> The rules for the event called for a contained fic of less than 15k, however in my heart of hearts, this is the first story in what will be a Spuffy-inclined S5 rewrite. Next up, New Year's Eve . . .


End file.
